“Thank you.” Heather’s gaze shifted to her children once more. Anyone could see she was a devoted mother.
Sam felt a pang in the vicinity of her heart. She’d never planned on a family. Her mother’s poor record at marriage hardly boded well for Sam’s success at connubial bliss. And an adage came to mind: like mother, like daughter. That was how she used to think. Now she wanted all that her mother had searched for. She longed for a family of her own, a family with Max.
At the scrape of chair legs, Sam lifted her head and saw Janie rounding the counter away from the woman she’d called Heather.
“I inherited my father’s ranch,” Heather was saying. “And I need plenty of help.”
“You should be able to find that.” Janie dug in a drawer behind the counter and handed Heather three suckers for her kids.
“Thanks.” Heather sent another sidelong glance in her kids’ direction.
“What kind of help do you need?” Janie asked while returning to Heather’s side.
“The ranch will need a lot of fixing up before I can sell it.” Heather spoke with an exuberance that sounded strained. “I need to find a good, cheap handyman. Could I post this sign for one on your bulletin board?”
“Oh, sure,” Janie ushered her to the board where locals had tacked notices of car and boat sales, of part-time jobs, of church and local events. “And I’ll keep an eye out for someone to help.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Heather pushed a tack into her notice. “I’d better go. The kids get impatient quickly.”
“They’re all so cute.”
Heather’s smile stretched with parental pride. “Thank you.”
As she hurried outside, Janie returned to Sam with a frosty-looking pitcher of iced tea.
“I heard you call her Heather,” Sam said.
Janie filled Sam’s glass before answering, “Heather Johnson. She used to live here. I thought she’d never be back after she left her daddy’s ranch. People change. Don’t know if she plans to stay around.” Janie swiveled a look toward the window. Outside, Heather was crouched and opening the sucker wrappers. “Isn’t she the sweetest-looking thing? And can you imagine having a figure like that after three kids?”
“I’m impressed,” Sam said between sips on her straw.
“She looks just like her mother,” Janie said about Heather.
When Sam had been fifteen, she and her mother had dressed alike. People had thought her mother was her sister. That was something Teresa Carter had strived for.
“But Heather is nothing like her mother was. Different personalities,” Janie simply said.
In some ways, Sam and her mother had been opposites, too. Teresa, renamed Tyne by herself, loved partying, going out. Sam had longed for a family life. Carl Hansen would always be a fond memory as the one stepdad who’d given that to Sam for a while. But Teresa had been bored with him. She’d always grown restless, wanting to go somewhere new, find someone else. Sam had never understood why her mother had never been satisfied with her life.
For a long moment she stared with unseeing eyes at the amber-colored liquid in her glass. She and her mother really weren’t alike, she mused.
Her own thought astonished her. Maybe because they’d looked so much alike, because people had always mentioned their “sunshiny smiles,” their bubbly personalities, Sam had made that assumption. True, they both had liked meeting people, had been exuberant about doing new things, but the similarities had ended there. Unlike Teresa who’d leaned on a man, who’d needed one, Sam had been independent, lived a lot of years without a man in her life.
Sam set down her spoon. All these years she’d believed happiness would elude her because her mother had never found it. But her mother hadn’t wanted what she did. And just because her mother couldn’t make a relationship last didn’t mean she couldn’t, Sam realized. Unlike her, Sam knew that she didn’t need to keep looking somewhere else for her happiness. She knew she’d find it with Max.
With the ring of the bell above the door, she brought herself back to her surroundings and heard Janie’s good-natured groan. “Time for the third degree,” she quipped.
Sam watched as Lily Mae Wheeler ambled in and took her usual seat in the first booth. The town’s busybody called the Hip Hop her second home. “Was that Heather Johnson I saw?” Lily Mae asked while shifting on the booth seat to ensure she’d be at the right angle to see the door, the register and the restaurant.
“Sure was,” Janie confirmed.
“What is she doing back here? You did find out, didn’t you? Is she divorced? That’s what I’d heard.” Her voice trailed off and her attention shifted, distracted by Max’s coming in.
“That didn’t take long,” Sam said with his approach.
“I fired him.” Max took a seat across from her.
Sam refrained from responding to his comment about his psychiatrist as Janie came over.
“Can I get you something?”
“No, but thanks,” he answered.
“Thanks?” She sounded shocked he’d said it. “Okay. If either of you wants anything, let me know.”
Discomfort lingered in Max’s eyes. He shook his head in the manner of disbelief. “If asked, friends would probably warn you to stay clear of me.”
Jessica had subtly done just that. “Why would they? Max Montgomery is considered the most eligible bachelor in town. Rich. A little handsome.” She teased him and rocked her hand in a “maybe” gesture. Actually he was gorgeous.
She saw him grin as she’d hoped. “What else?” he prodded.
“Intelligent,” she admitted. Loving.
“We’ve caught someone’s eagle eye,” Max said, looking past her.
Turning, Sam noticed Lily Mae was practically twisting her neck out of joint to watch them. “That’s Lily Mae, the town crier.” She paused, waiting until he met her stare again. “Max, why aren’t you going back to the doctor?”
“The shrink,” he corrected.
She heard an edge to his voice.
“He can’t help me remember. And if I had to hear him say one more time, ‘Tell me what you think,’ I’d have slugged him.”
Sam knew he was only half joking. Lately she’d sensed his patience was being stretched to its limit. Every morning, he awakened before her as if growing restless at not remembering. And he’d go to bed with her, but had trouble falling asleep. She’d wonder if anger at not remembering kept him awake. “I know it’s difficult not to be discouraged.”
“Hell, I thought I’d be rid of this,” he said pointedly, touching the cast on his arm. When they’d been in the doctor’s office, he’d been annoyed that the doctor hadn’t removed the cast.
Max watched concern etch a line between her brows and gave himself a mental kick for acting like a jerk. What was the point of the self-pity, especially when it made her fret? “Forget it,” he said. “I expected more than I should have.”
“No, you have every right to expect to be healed by now. Having patience is the hardest part of recovering. But you will get rid of that soon.”
If someone else had said that to him, he’d have half listened. But it was the sincerity in Sam’s voice that made him believe her. Sometimes she seemed so serious, so different from the woman who wore a neon-green baseball cap when she jogged at dawn, or who burst into laughter when he flicked television channels and she caught a minute Bugs Bunny segment. It seemed as if he was always learning something new about her.
When they’d first met, he’d thought her flighty, didn’t understand her, couldn’t imagine having a thing in common. From his life-style and what he’d learned about himself, he assumed that he preferred elegant-looking women, bluebloods who’d come from a similar background. He wasn’t sure he would like that man, the one who might be too blind by his social position, too ambitious, too distant to appreciate her. Standing, he picked up the bill Janie had dropped on the table earlier. “Let’s go.”
Sam kept a close eye on him for a long moment. The
dark mood seemed to have passed, at least for now. But there would be more. He was one of the walking wounded with a huge, hidden sore.
Leading the way to the door, Sam knew that to ignore Lily Mae would result in more gossip. “’Bye, Lily Mae,” she said in passing.
“Goodbye, Samantha.” Speculation oozed from her voice.
Sam waited at the door until Max paid the bill. “That woman makes a career of finding out others’ business,” she murmured low. “She’ll gossip about us.”
When they’d stepped outside, Max bent his head and kissed her. It was a quick kiss, yet long enough to catch Lily Mae’s attention.
Sam stayed near a second longer. “Not a wise thing to do.”
Max wondered how to make her understand. He’d believed his life would be empty until he found himself. He knew now that didn’t matter. It would only be empty if he lived it without her. “I don’t care about her or anyone. Only you.” He fit her against him. “Hell of a place to tell you this,” he admitted. I love you. He thought the words. He felt the emotion, but the words wouldn’t come out. Why not? He did love her, so why couldn’t he say the words? “I don’t want this to end, Sam,” he said instead.
Stunned, Sam stared at him, her heart thudding harder. She’d yearned for him to say something like that, but never believed he would. Now that he had, she felt all good sense threatening to flee. Oh, Mama, why of all the things did I inherit your romantic heart? “Max, when I’m done working for—”
“I’m not talking about the job, Sam. I’m talking about us.”
Us. Sam wanted to believe. She didn’t want to listen to the little voice nagging at her. After he has his memory back, will he believe you don’t belong in his world?
“I’m no poet, Sam.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “But I know what I feel about you.” Gently he fingered a strand of her hair. “You take my breath away.”
And he stopped her heart. His hadn’t been words to persuade her to do something, or to coax her into his bed. They were simple words said beneath the brightness of day on the sidewalk outside the Hip Hop. Words that overwhelmed her. No one had ever said something so wonderful to her before. But, oh, God, one of them had to be sensible, didn’t they? Oh, why did she? She loved him. What else mattered? With her fingertips, she stroked his cheek, steadied herself with a deep breath. She knew she wasn’t her mother. Unlike her, she could have love, make it last. Closing the inches between them, she wanted to say everything that was in her heart. She was a word away from revealing all of her fears about them, telling him that she loved him.
The moment eluded them.
“Sheriff’s bringing him in,” a man across the street yelled from the curb to anyone who would listen.
With Max, Sam rounded a look toward the police station.
“What the hell is happening?” Max murmured.
Twelve
Sam traced his stare to the sheriff’s car braking at the curb in front of the station. Before she and Max crossed the street, a crowd had congregated. Voices buzzed as Deputy Sloan Ravencrest slid out of the cruiser and cast the gawking onlookers a scowl. Like them, Sam wondered who was in the back seat, who’d been arrested. Moving to stand behind Sheriff Rafe Rawlings, Sloan opened the back door and urged a man from the car.
A tall, lean Native American, his hands cuffed behind his back, stood and was sandwiched between the sheriff and Sloan. “Oh, my gosh,” Sam muttered as the man was swiftly ushered toward the door of the police station. The gossipmongers at the hospital would have a field day. Back straight, head up, Gavin Nighthawk was still wearing his hospital lab coat. They’d apparently arrested him while the highly respected doctor had been at work at Whitehorn Memorial. “What’s happening?” she asked a woman beside her, the owner of a neighboring dress shop.
Instead of answering, the woman looked from Sam to Max. “Hello, Mr. Montgomery.”
Clearly, by the questions in Max’s eyes, he had no idea who she was, but he nodded hello.
“I heard Gavin Nighthawk was arrested for Christina Montgomery’s—for your sister’s murder,” she said to Max.
Sam dared a look at him. The only outward change in his appearance came from a slight narrowing of his eyes.
Max said nothing, waiting until they’d distanced themselves from the woman and the crowd. Without another word, he pivoted toward the sheriff’s office.
One of the deputies signaled their approach because Rafe Rawlings whipped around when they were feet away. “Mr. Montgomery.”
At the railing, Max paused, Sam with him. “What’s happening here, Sheriff?”
“Sloan, take him in,” Rafe said to his deputy about their prisoner.
While Sloan hurried Gavin into the building, the sheriff came up to Max and Sam to keep their conversation private.
“Someone said you arrested him for Christina’s murder,” Max prodded. “Did he confess? Does Ellis know?”
“We haven’t notified him yet.” Rafe spoke low. “Nighthawk contends he’s innocent. We’re arresting him on various evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“DNA. It proved that Gavin Nighthawk is the father of the baby your sister had. We figure he might have wanted your sister to keep that quiet. His career is important to him,” he added, seeming to view that as a motive for killing her. “I imagine your father will be relieved to have this over.” Rafe cupped a hand over Max’s shoulder. “It hasn’t been easy for any of you.”
Max gave him the expected nod of thanks, but he turned a frown on Sam when they were alone. “I’m not a part of this,” he said while they were walking toward her vehicle.
As if nothing unusual had happened, neither of them said more about Gavin Nighthawk. Unlike what Max believed, Sam felt that Max couldn’t disassociate himself. If he didn’t have the amnesia, he would want someone accountable for his sister’s murder. That was a normal reaction to the death of a loved one. In time, if more memories returned, he’d know that.
By the time they reached the house, heavy gray clouds had gathered. As Sam expected, several phone messages needed Max’s attention. One was from his father. While he returned the calls, Sam wandered upstairs to her room to change her clothes.
With not much time before dinner, she showered quickly. Wrapping a towel around her, she blow-dried her hair, then wandered to the closet. The day had been a difficult one for Max. So many images, so many happenings.
By nature, she was a talker. If something or someone bothered her, she never reined in her feelings.
Max was the opposite. A brooder, he would mull over something, gnaw at it.
Sam wiggled into a new green print slip dress, then bent to retrieve her fancy sandals from the back of the closet. She wished he would share what he was feeling with her, let her help. Even if she couldn’t heal his troubled thoughts, she could comfort. Her hair slightly damp, she fluffed the strands with her fingers as she started down the stairs.
Though Josie served them breakfast in the kitchen as Max had requested, she refused to serve dinner anywhere except in the formal dining room. She’d set a perfect table with candles in silver candlesticks, fine crystal and china.
Sam had entered the room only seconds before Max.
As his eyes swept appreciatively over her, she nearly blushed.
“You look lovely.”
She’d wanted just such a response from him, but feeling a little self-conscious, she laughed. “Thank you.” She had spiffed up more than usual tonight. She’d felt different, more feminine after his earlier words to her. She thought back to those moments when he’d told her he didn’t want this to end. She wanted to believe that was possible. She wanted to let herself feel loved. And wise or not, she wanted desperately to let herself believe this was a beginning for them.
Her heart filled with love, she soaked in the sight of him as he looked down to pour the white wine into a fluted glass for her. The slightest of frown lines marred his brow. Later, when his mind wasn’t troubled, she wou
ld tell him what she felt. She would tell him that she loved him.
Now she had another matter to deal with. Sam took a seat at the table. When he joined her and handed her the wineglass, his lips widened to a smile. But it failed to reach his eyes. Sam made a logical assumption. “Max, do you want to talk about what happened in town?”
“I guess the real Max Montgomery is emerging,” he mocked. “Everyone has said I was cold and indifferent. That’s how I feel about Christina. I really don’t feel anything.”
Sam reached for his hand, so near hers on the table, and linked her fingers with his. “You can’t make yourself feel something.”
“I don’t remember her, Sam. She’s a name to me, nothing more. Should I be angry at Gavin Nighthawk? Should I be relieved Christina’s alleged killer has been caught? I don’t know what to feel.”
She heard the depth of frustration in him.
“Who knows?” He pulled her hand to him and kissed her palm. “The truth is that neither of us knows what I’m really like. What I’ll be like when I can remember again.”
Sam searched his face. “What makes you think you’ll change?”
“According to other people, I’m not like I was before the accident,” he pointed out. “Logic dictates that when my memory returns I’ll revert to the way I was.”
She’d known a softer, gentler version of Max Montgomery—but not for a moment did she fool herself. The workaholic, practical and no-nonsense man existed. “Had your father heard about the arrest?” she asked, remembering how agitated Ellis had sounded when Max played his message on the answering machine.
“He did.” Max released her hand and reached for his wineglass. “He’s ranting about a quick trial, about bringing the monster to justice.”
“What did you say?”
“What could I say? Did Nighthawk do it?” Max sipped his wine. “Do you think so?”
Sam would have been guessing. “I don’t know. I do know there’s been a lot of pressure on the sheriff to find the killer.”
“From my father?”
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